


to call a hearth your home

by sunsongs



Category: AFTER L!FE: The Sacred Kaleidoscope | 애프터라이프: 소원을 담는 만화경!, AFTERL!FE
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Blood and Injury, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Nightmares, Relationship Study, Spoilers, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25718056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsongs/pseuds/sunsongs
Summary: In which Louis finds someone to remember him always.What a waste of a pretty face,you thought, chin resting on the back of your hand.All ablaze, like a spark to kindling. Always burning -- refusing to die down to mere ash and embers. Like sunlight spilling through the clouds in January, in defiance of the bitter cold.You’ve always been drawn to warmth in midwinter, buried as it may be through layers of snow.
Relationships: Louis (AFTERL!FE)/Ethan (AFTERL!FE)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	to call a hearth your home

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers for louis' r card, forever a prince! a lot of this is character study, with some louis/ethan as a treat...
> 
> cw: mild claustrophobia/descriptions of imprisonment being "suffocating," in-depth description of nightmares
> 
> please take care! this takes place.. a while through canon verse, where louis and ethan have gotten to know each other better as (at first very reluctant) friends.

You are no stranger to self-love. You could wax poetic about your lustrous locks’ likeness to the sun for hours on end. You insist, daily, that your roommate has been graced with the radiance of a king. Just to ensure he does not forget.

Sunlight falls on his face, framing brilliant red hair. Softening angular features in sleep, making him look younger. Gentler. Serene. For a brief, blinding moment he looks the part of a painting -- he’s even perfected that near-perpetual expression of distaste.

Who gave him the right to look that good? Then he opens his mouth, and you remember the ill-tempered disposition behind that pretty face.

 _Don’t you ever get sick of hearing your voice?_ Ethan scoffs one lazy morning, dust motes waltzing through the brisk autumn air. In the grace period between missions, he allows himself just one more hour of rest.

He covers an eye with an arm, squints at you with the other — looking the part of an affronted cat. 

You remember. One in the morning, and he’d trudged through the door with the weariness of a soldier returning home. Some mission it must’ve been. He was covered in fluffy white feathers from head to toe. 

“Is this the latest trend? Or art thine tastes more suited to your… idiosyncrasies?” You stared, trying not to smile. 

“Look who’s talking.” He scowled, dead-eyed, daring you to laugh. He was probably too spent to shoot back a scathing retort, as he dragged a dirt-stained glove down his dust-streaked face.

He sneezed, and a single feather fell from his hair. It drifted through the air, making the slowest, most awkward journey you had to suffer in the span of seconds. You were too tired to fully register the hilarity of the moment.

Ah. Combined with your teasing, that explains why his fuse’s shorter than usual.

Now his other hand’s twitching towards his pillow, as if he is about to unsheathe a blade. Looks like Patented Homicidal Glare No. 251: he’s tempted into succumbing to his murderous tendencies, but decides it isn’t worth the energy this early in the morning. Even so, he won’t deny it. 

He will take your flowery verse any day over June’s overflowing wellspring of energy, or Theo’s exacting adherence to perfection. If you say so, he will ask whether that head wound from a few days ago knocked out the few neurons you had left.

Whatever god was out there must have had a sense of humor. Several days ago, they decided winding your fated strings with Ethan’s was perfect for a comedy act — pairing him with you on a mission to the Human World. 

Tracking the vengeful soul had been, quite frankly, a pain. Snow was falling fast, obscuring any tracks you could have chased. Gathering intel by word of mouth was nigh impossible. Having the innate ability to speak any language was futile (one perk of being dead, at least) with a grand total of zero people around. 

But… if there was nobody around, where were the strains of an eerie lullaby coming from? It was a feminine voice, crooning soft and sweet -- like a mother to her child. It had to be… the vengeful soul?

 _One, two, three…_ a ghostly whisper in your ear left you shivering from more than the cold. You opened your mouth to call out a warning, but you felt an icy finger pressed to your lips and ice in your lungs, stinging every time you struggled to breathe. You tried mustering a shout, only to hack out a pitiful sounding wheeze. 

Was that the delicate scent of lavender, carried on a frigid wind? That couldn’t be right. Hardy as the flowering plant may be, you doubt it had a chance of growing here. 

Snowflakes whirled through the air in a flurry of white. You wished you had a fraction of their tranquility. Lucky you. You had the fortune of being paired with one of the most insufferable soul reapers around.

The climate was cold enough that even Ethan didn’t complain when you crept closer for warmth. You couldn’t even communicate to him that the vengeful soul was targeting _you_ , for some godforsaken reason.

 _Seven, eight, nine…_ The scent of lavender was growing even stronger. There was no way you were imagining this. The words had a whimsical lilt to them, too. It was all a game to this spirit, was it not? A shiver shuddered down your spine. What could it be counting down to? Your demise?

“Tch. How can one vengeful soul be so hard to find?”

Sparks from the crackling fire Ethan had set up (“... You are a prince, are you not? You wouldn’t have experience with this field. I do not have the time to teach you a crash course on survival -- tch, don’t give me those eyes. Let me handle it. You keep watch.”) flew upwards, the embers illuminating those bright eyes, that angular jaw. (All sharp lines without softness.) 

Lighting up those eyes of his, always aglow with the intensity of a blazing hearth. Always watching for any sign of movement from the forest, the wind stalking through snow-capped firs like it had something to hide. Waiting to strike.

 _What a waste of a pretty face,_ you thought, chin resting on the back of your hand. _All ablaze, like a spark to kindling. Always burning -- refusing to die down to mere ash and embers. Like sunlight spilling through the clouds in January, in defiance of the bitter cold._

You’ve always been drawn to warmth in midwinter, buried as it may be through layers of snow.

“There… there must be something, no? Mwahaha!” You laughed to hide the strain in your voice. Ethan must have noticed -- somehow, he always saw through your facade -- but didn’t call you out on it. He must have thought you were worried about coming back empty-handed. “Perhaps it will be attracted to the sight of my ethereal beauty. Not even a spirit can resist my heavenly charms!”

 _Ten, eleven, twelve…_ You felt the unsettling weight of eyes on your back. She was watching you, then. Had been the entire time.

“... What on earth…” Ethan shook his head, exasperated. I shouldn’t have worried, he was probably thinking. “How do you even come to these ridiculous -- never mind. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

 _Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…_ You’ve tossed around twenty glances over your shoulder, only to be greeted with gleeful giggles echoing through your ears.

Stars were starting to spear through the darkening sky, silver studding brilliant blue. You spent hours scouring the forest for any sign of a vengeful soul, following the claw marks carved into tree bark.

Must be a way of marking its territory, you mused, but you couldn’t find any consistent pattern. _Ah… shame on me. How can I call myself king? I cannot even discern the whereabouts of a single vengeful soul!_

 _Seventeen… eighteen…_ This vengeful spirit was going to be a veritable target for your ire. Is this what Ethan feels like after being subjected to your endless prattle? Perhaps you would, as you’ve heard Noah sigh in the midst of mediating between Cyrille and Kati, “tone it down a notch.” 

You trudged back to camp, carving a miserable path through snowdrifts and snapped branches. Ethan was waiting, fists clenched tight enough that you could hear the leather creaking. 

A wind swept through the trees. If you listened hard enough, it sounded… shrill enough to pierce. That voice again. No longer singing, no longer soft and sweet. It was bloodcurdling: the scream of a woman in her final moments. … Like Mother, after… no, you’d rather not think about that now. You’re not imagining it, are you? 

Come to think of it, you haven’t heard any counting for several minutes, now. All you can hear now is the echo of a playful voice: _Nineteen...twen-ty~! Ready or nooot, dear… Here I cooome~!_

Ethan wouldn’t want your platitudes. He was restless enough to pace circles around the fire he set up for your temporary campsite, itching to be of use -- so you told him to keep watch. 

“It is out there, somewhere -- and we shall find it. We always do. Do you not hear the singing? The screaming?” With the realization that you could speak freely, your words came in a rush. You had a strange feeling that your time had finally run out. “The counting? We have not seen anyone for miles, so what else could it be?”

“Ever the optimist.” Ethan rolled his eyes, but lowered tensed shoulders at your words. Looks like they struck a chord in him. “Wait -- what do you mean? I haven’t heard any voices since we arrived, not counting yours.”

Turns out, you never found the vengeful soul. 

A gale struck with the force of lightning carving its mark on unsuspecting earth, extinguishing the fire in seconds.

There was no thunder to precede it -- only an ear-splitting, high-pitched shriek that brought you to your knees. The sweet floral scent of lavender perfume. Mother’s. A curt voice called out your name, for once too alarmed to conceal concern. Ethan’s. You couldn’t make out the words. 

All you could hear was laughter, chilling you to the bone with its familiarity. _She died years ago. She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s not… not…!_ A singsong voice that has lulled you to sleep so many times. _No! No, it can’t be._ The devil’s whisper in your ear. _Please._

You stumbled to your feet, vision blurring in a haze of static. Clearing. Blurring. Clearing, again. Ethan was shaking you by the shoulders, worry flashing in narrowed eyes. He was kneeling by your side, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

He was too focused on you to see the spirit leap out from above, perched in snow-dusted branches. Had it — she? — been waiting all this time? You feigned weakness, head clearing as you realize Ethan wouldn't be able to dodge the spirit’s talons in time: pearl-white feathers sharpened to lethal points. 

It found you. 

_There you aaare, darling~!_ It was laughing. _She_ was laughing. _Foolish little prince, trusting whatever hand that reaches out to yours. Haven’t you learned your lesson by now?_

 _How dare you,_ you wanted to hiss. _How dare you try to fool me with the likeness of my mother._

Ah, you realized. The spirit lunged at Ethan, owl-like eyes gleaming gold. Glittering with twisted triumph. With a startling clarity, you mustered all of your strength to shove him out of harm’s way. 

_“Louis!”_ That was the first time Ethan’s called you by name, you realized through a fog of pain, setting every nerve ending alight. A liquid was trickling down your typically immaculate hair, blooming across brilliant white snow in a mockery of your beloved roses. Blood. 

The sound of a sword being unsheathed. The ensuing clang and clamor of combat. It all sounded so far away. The lyrics to a familiar lullaby echoed through the forest, bittersweet. They faded with the flapping of a butterfly’s wings. 

_I never met the ground_ , you realized. As you succumbed to sleep, someone was cradling you in their arms like you were made of glass. Cold. You shivered. They wrapped their coat around your shoulders, holding you close. You leaned into their touch. They were warm like a winter hearth — something to come home to. 

You closed your eyes. 

Time was up.

/ / 

You are no stranger to elegance. Your youth was spent in spacious chambers, listening to the echo of hymns through hallowed halls.

You spent your youth under rib vaulted ceilings arcing overhead, graceful as the curve of a swan’s neck. Crowded with rows of colonnades, towering and silent like a squadron of soldiers: standing at the crown’s command.

Strange, then, that such sophisticated architecture -- palatial grounds filled with so many people -- left so much space for loneliness. 

Your mother was the shining jewel of the palace -- beloved by all. You were fond of your father, though you weren’t as close. Mother was the one to read you stanza after stanza of poetry on sleepless nights, after all. She is the reason why you keep their melodic meter close to your heart. 

Mother was a meddler. Just like you. She would leave flowers for Bridgette to give to her long-held crush, pushing her gently into the right direction.

You had to live under a rock to not catch the way the typically taciturn knight lit up at the sight of Josephine, the royal confectioner -- who was sweeter than the pastries she crafted, according to Bridgette. 

Mother made an effort to know each and every one of the castle attendants by name. She only laughed when she learned they were placing bets on how long it would take for either of them to confess.

She took things into her own hands, playing matchmaker. _There are only so many longing-filled glances one can take in one day, chéri. At this rate, they will pine enough to grow a forest._

Mother armed herself with lavender perfume as if it were a weapon, and every day was spent waging another war.

Told you that one day, we’ll take a trip to the endless verdance of the countryside. Provence in July, where the lavender fields are all in bloom from hill to horizon. Looks like they go on for forever. Imagine that, _chéri._ Forever.

Mother said you had her laugh, the same shade of hair. Told you that the sun left you a goodnight kiss, see, so you would hold summer’s warmth even on cloudy days. You look into the mirror with her eyes and remember the shape of her smile. How can you not love a face in her likeness? How could you not treasure the heart she had sacrificed so much to give?

She burned so brightly, so brilliantly. You should have known that those days weren’t meant to last. 

She told you once, in her final days. You were seven, then. Childbirth weakened her already failing health. You wondered how long she had been hiding it from you, all these years. What other secrets crept along dusty corridors, lying in wait. 

Mother whispered that you were the most precious thing she had, brought into this world by her hands.

_Do you know the joy I feel at the sight of your smile? How boundless your heart is, how filled with love. I pray you keep smiling for me, chéri. Take care that none take advantage of your benevolent heart. Know that I will love you always, and nothing can do us part._

All the colors of the world faded with her passing for a while. Even now, that old wound still aches from time to time. 

That’s what brings you to the Fourteenth Department’s garden on halcyon days, where rows of vegetables are more plentiful a harvest than hydrangeas.

You close your eyes. Feel the sunlight on your skin, reciting stanza after stanza to Jamie. You smile, already expecting him to succumb to slumber when he drifts off mid-verse. Feel a refreshing wind tousle painstakingly groomed locks, ruffling your hair. 

If you close your eyes, you can almost hear the fading remnants of your mother’s voice. 

  
  


/ /

You are no stranger to beauty. In wandering the corridors of memory, there is no shortage of it.

Remember crystalline champagne glasses, filled to the brim with liquid diamond. Raised one by one in a toast to the crown. Diamond, after all, is formed only from atmospheres worth of back-breaking pressure. 

You open your eyes. Find yourself among neatly trimmed hedges, cut in compliance to their master’s tastes. Flowers embroider verdant foliage, delicate like lace. Vivid red dahlias unfurl among striking orange lilies, close enough that their petals touch. Cheery yellow hyacinths beam alongside carnations of the same color, so very contrary to their crueler meanings. 

Not a single bird is singing. There is not a single breeze at your back. 

Look to your feet. There’s warmth coiling around your ankles, a snake in the grass. Deceptively gentle, holding you in place. It winds its coils around the pulsing warmth of a sovereign jugular -- yours -- and your breath catches in your throat. 

_Mine_ , he’s murmuring, hungry syllables crawling over your skin. Laine does not mean you. He craves all that power, vested in your royal veins. 

You wove wreaths from these flowers as a child, winding plush petals together with care. You stood on the tips of your toes to crown Laine. 

_Long live the king of flower crown making -- may you reign forevermore!_ You giggled, oblivious, as you poked his cheek, grinning from ear to ear. He looked away, eye twitching with ill-concealed annoyance, but you didn’t miss the corner of his mouth curling upwards. Small as the gesture might’ve been, it was enough. 

You just… never imagined he’d want yours. Crave the throne enough to crown himself king. Step over the shallow graves of withered roses, willingly prick himself with their thorns. Paint his hands all the colors of a pampered prince: a palette in pastels. So very soft, so utterly ignorant of the clockwork machinations of a cruel world. 

How could you have been so blind? Those were the same hands that slipped a blade into Father’s back. 

Magnanimous as your heart may he, you cannot forgive him. Not now, and perhaps not ever. 

Ah, it would be so much easier if you could hate him. So much simpler. But you remember the hands that tucked you to bed so many times, as a child. His expression softening, contrary to his caustic remarks. The hands that guided you up so many flights of stairs.

Some days, he would carry you there on his back, even after the rigors of being put through the wringer by your sword instructor -- skin sticky and clothes drenched with sweat. 

_Was it only out of obligation,_ you wonder. _Was I truly ever your friend? Was I just another pawn in your ploy for power, discarded at a moment’s whim?_

You snarl the words to empty air. You have a feeling you will never receive an answer.

/ / 

You are no stranger to defiance. 

Diamond, in its purest form, is formed in temperatures scalding enough to evaporate blood. But you are not diamond, which speaks only the tongues of the ephemeral.

You are seeds sown in sun-warmed loam, born to bloom once more. Yours is the tale of a steadfast sapling spreading roots in solid ground, refusing to be swept away by torrential winds. 

You wake to a fathomless sea of black, swallowed whole by its shadows. You remember this place all too well. 

Your story did not end in that echoing chamber: all suffocating silence behind rusting bars. It did not end with you telling yourself over and over, _For the sake of my people, I cannot falter. This is only the beginning, not my end._

It is the only prayer you have ever known. Dizziness clouded your thoughts in fathomless fog. In the aftermath of restless dreams, you still find yourself there -- so close to death, you could almost taste it: ashes on your tongue. 

Dream with your eyes open. Close them. It wouldn’t make any difference in the dark. The stench of decay sank deep into your lungs, all rot and ruin. The scuttling of claws, sequestered in the shadows, could come from anywhere, and you would never see it coming.

 _No greater music than this,_ you joked to yourself. You laughed a little, half in hysterics. 

After several days playing the part of a dutiful captive, you startled at the hoarseness of your voice -- unable to recognize the sound of a stranger. There’s a reason you avoid the ornate, full-length mirror -- the self-proclaimed centerpiece of the Die dormitory -- in the aftermath of dreams. 

(You don’t turn your face to the looking glass because you are a coward. You don’t want to see a hollow mockery of the man you once were looking back.)

/ /

The vengeful spirit was a grieving mother. It was said that her spirit roamed the forest from dawn to dusk, searching for her son. He was a hunter well-versed in the practice of falconry. Rumor said he had an affinity with animals -- particularly snowy owls. 

At the time of their separation, he was twenty years old. They were divided by the ravages of an unusually fierce snowstorm, never to see each other again.

His mother sought out anyone who had even the slightest resemblance to her son, whether it was in the shape of their face or the slope of their nose. In death, she did not discern one from the other. She lured them into the forest by taking on the face of the person they held the most dear. You were no exception. 

She would call out the lyrics of a lullaby, carried on the wind. In death, she wanted her son to be at peace. She wanted it to be like falling asleep.

A mother, calling out for her son. Were the roles reversed, this would be a story you know all too well. You found yourself praying: that in this life or the next, they would meet again. That whoever writes their story would be a benevolent god. That they would be granted the happy ending they deserved.

You traced the curve of your kaleidoscope, daring to hope. _If they can get their happy ending, then so can I._

/ /

  
You are no stranger to disorientation. In the aftermath of that miserable mission, you stirred to the clean scent of antiseptic. Settling against unfamiliar pillows in an unfamiliar bed, you came to the conclusion that you were in the infirmary.

The familiarity of Ethan’s voice was… comforting. (Even if his words weren’t, more often than not.) He was sitting beside your bed, straight-backed as always in a wooden chair. That… did not look comfortable in the least.

There were worse things to wake up to, you reasoned, such as June subjecting you to his morning routine.

“How could I ever forget the face of the fool who saved my life?” Ethan murmured, “Don’t you ever do that to me again.” It was likely he only meant for himself to hear. 

He hadn’t bothered to tie his hair. Loose strands framed his face, haphazard and in disarray. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Had he been _that_ concerned? You don’t bother asking, knowing he’ll contradict your claims the way he always did.

“Ah…?” was all you managed to say in the aftermath of a head wound. You struggled upright, only to be treated to the feeling of pain lancing through your ribs. Delightful. 

Ethan shot you an exasperated look, moments too late. Before, he was too caught up in his thoughts to notice. For a brief moment, you wanted to smack him. Clock him with the nearest pillow, perhaps, and return the favor for all his abrasiveness. It’d serve him right.

“You… said you did not want to be forgotten. You wanted someone -- anyone -- to commit your name to memory. As long as one person remembered your story, you would never die.” Ethan’s eyes are narrowed, again. Brow creased with concern, as much as he would say otherwise.

“...Thank you, though I could do without the flagrant slander of my intelligence. Thine sharp tongue… truly, thou art incorrigible.” You huffed, indignance coloring your voice. You hadn’t wanted to be exposed like this. You would be an easy target to tear apart, now that your deepest vulnerability had been laid bare.

“I should be thanking you. That was reckless. Foolish, even -- though I’m starting to learn that’s nothing new. I don’t understand why you would…” Instead of verbally eviscerating you, Ethan trailed off, voice pensive. … Only a small percentage of that was actual gratitude. Ah, well. You would take what you could get.

“You would do the same for me, would you not? Do not lie to me. It is the least you can do for your savior.” Your words were flat. Brokering little room for argument, if any at all. You sent him a reproving stare, just for emphasis. 

“... Of course. Who else will know how to prepare coffee the way I like it in the mornings?” Ethan rolled his eyes, but did not deny it that time. 

You smirked, thinking: _Just you wait. I will make a less emotionally repressed man of you yet._

“Tasteless scoundrel that you are, I know your preferences. Think nothing of it. It is no Herculean task.”

“You really are insufferable.” 

“I could say the same of you.”

You laughed, then. In spite of all your differences, the two of you were surprisingly alike in one thing: your tenacity.

Once you have set your mind on something, there is no dissuading you. Ethan possesses that same immovable quality. Though at times vexing, you suppose it is a trait to be admired.

To your surprise, Ethan joined in with a chuckle of his own. Soon, the two of you were making enough of a racket for Sian to grumble his complaints, out in the hallway, and June to chime in with a boisterous bark of laughter, for reasons beyond your comprehension.

Without that resolution, you would not have lasted a day in imprisonment. The thought of smiles unfurling across the faces of your people like so many flowers was the reason you held on for so long. You clung to that connection -- that thread of fate -- so desperately. It was your only beacon among the tumultuous seas of turbulent dreams. 

How unfortunate it is, that the limitations of the body do not match those of the mind. 

/ / 

You are no stranger to fear.

You wanted your story to be woven into the sheer silk of stanzas, the rich velvet of ballads: brazen bolts of brilliant cloth. For all your serenading, you never expected the accompaniment to come from Ethan. 

Morning unfurls in your shared room with a flurry of notes: the lyrical lilt of lavender, singing sweetly to the swordsman’s tune. 

You care not if they call you obnoxious, because you are afraid. If your presence is so intolerable, then so be it. As long as you are not forgotten, you will do anything. If there are paintings crafted in your name and sculptures carved in your likeness, how can they erase you from the venerated halls of history once more? 

You would hold Ethan to his word. Make him swear on his honor as a knight. Truly, you had to applaud your ingenuity. _What better person to remember me than one with photographic memory?_

You sigh at the familiar scent. You can almost hear the cadence of your mother’s voice. _Forever, chéri. Forever._ Her laughter, lingering in the air like so much smoke. 

Ethan only chooses lavender on restless nights, even if you’re the only one haunted by memory. Even when it dulls his senses in the mornings, so that he only feels half awake. You have only mentioned your mother in passing to him -- how you missed her. How a hug from her felt like forgiveness. He does not, however, know the scent of her perfume. 

(Someday, you will tell him. As of right now… you are not ready to tell her story to another. Not yet.)

So you won’t mention over a breakfast of slightly burnt bagels (courtesy of June) how you saw him the night before, hands clutching at his chest -- clawing at invisible wounds. You will sing him the song you keep closest to your heart, instead, until he remembers himself. 

In turn, he won’t bring up the way you clawed your way from sleep like you were drowning: lungs filled with stagnant water, not air. He will recite your favorite poems stanza by stanza, verse by verse. He will wait until you can whisper one back, voice low and hoarse.

If there’s a mug of coffee brewed to suit Ethan’s preference on the counter (sacriligeously, insufferably bitter), he won’t say anything at all. 

You want to be there to see a smile unfurl across his face, gradual yet warm. It brings to mind the first time you felt sunlight on your skin. After being steeped in shadows for what felt like eternity, it felt like salvation. Like coming home. 

“Not bad for a pampered prince,” Ethan scoffs. Notes of mirth still linger in his voice. You’ve known him long enough to catch the flash of contentment in his eyes, there and gone. 

You take a sip of your own. Smile. Cradle the warmth of well-worn ceramic in your palms, savoring the heat seeping through your gloves. Settling in your skin like it belongs there. 

The cup’s not elegant by any means, and leagues below your lofty standards. But the Fourteenth Department does not have the funds for extravagance, so you will have to make do. It’s chipped at the corner from June’s new training regimen: cartwheeling through the kitchen. 

If asked, he’ll shout: _It was brother Ghilley’s idea! He told me it was the way of a real man!_ At five thirty in the morning, no less. _A real man rises bright and early,_ June is rather fond of saying. You just wish he didn’t find dragging everyone in the department along for the ride an essential part of his daily regimen.

Theo was smiling, but something in the way he was dicing those apples made you shiver. The department’s habitual schemer better watch his back. Ah, well. 

Theo might be a little intimidating sometimes, but you know that feeling. Of wanting to protect what little you have left -- whatever it takes. Your kingdom slipping beyond your grasp like sand through your fingers. The desperate sensation of wanting control -- of anything. Just to feel solid ground beneath your feet again. Just to feel alive. In the end, you’re so very afraid of letting it go.

You don’t know his story. Perhaps you never will, but… as a colleague, and perhaps even a friend -- you want him to know that there’s a place for him here. That he does not have to hold himself to impossible standards in order to be loved. That his existence is already deserving of merit. That he will always be enough. 

He does not need you to tell him this. June speaks through actions, not words: always inviting Theo for a morning jog. A smile that says: _I accept you for who you are._ Though Theo refuses the offer more often than not, he always smiles when he does so.

Nine will always sigh upon hearing a cacophony of irritated chords, but will always offer to walk Theo through a particularly difficult movement of his music. In the end, the Manager will always set aside a part of their budget for Theo’s cleaning supplies.

Ah, you realize. You’ve gotten used to this. All of the Fourteenth Department’s clamor and chaos, that is. Some days, you even look forward to it. Maybe it is because you’ve come to think of this place as another home. 

Six in the morning, and rain’s coming down like retribution from the divine -- drumming an endless cadence on the roof. Sounds like an unwanted neighbor at the door, knocking with reckless abandon. In the distance, you can hear June on the warpath down the department’s halls. 

Quincy is hot on June’s heels for waking him up, stomping behind him like the world’s loudest vengeful spirit. A ghoul with a grudge. Thing is, the only creature he’d induce fear in is probably a kitten -- more often than not, he is more bark than bite.

The wind’s rattling the panes with the same fury you saw play out at the kitchen counter, when Kati accidentally mixed up his cup of hot chocolate with Ethan’s coffee. Briefly, you wondered if the world might end. Kati on caffeine, Ethan without.

Let’s just say you would rather take on ten vengeful spirits than one Ethan deprived of caffeine. 

You’ve exorcised your fair share of those over the past few days. Spirits, that is. Not caffeine-deprived swordsmen. You’re grateful to be in good company when laying them to rest. 

(You breathe in the aroma of coffee, steam curling from your mug like the tail of a contented cat. Listen to the rhythm of the rain: a steady, unfaltering cadence. Like someone always moving forward, never looking back.)

Good company, hm? You don’t need words to know what Ethan is saying in the silence. 

(You close your eyes. Take in the aroma of lavender, its scent a song you’ve heard so many times. You know it like the back of your own hand, yet… as long as you live, you will never tire of those lyrics. That undying warmth.)

The smile on Ethan’s lips is thanks enough.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing them, so I hope the characterization's alright. 
> 
> Louis' mother isn't mentioned in canon (at least, in the cards I've read so far...) so she's based off my headcanons. Also, this is not beta read. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are appreciated.


End file.
